Slow Heat Read online

  There was a pause, then the low, throaty laugh of a man who sounded as if he’d been smoking for two hundred years. “Well, well. Who’s the pretty lady answering my son’s phone?”

  “Samantha McNead,” she said. “Publicist for the Heat.” And your son’s occasional booty call partner.

  “I don’t suppose Wade would be around?”

  “No, I’m sorry. He’s . . .” She didn’t want to alarm him, especially on the off chance he hadn’t seen the game. “Temporarily unavailable.”

  Wade’s father laughed again, heartily. “Darlin’, that boy has been temporarily unavailable all his damn life. Can you get him a message for me? One that he’ll actually listen to?”

  She sincerely doubted there was a soul on earth who could make Wade O’Riley listen if he didn’t want to. “I can get him a message,” she said carefully.

  “Tell him I’m at the bus station. I made the trip, the least he can do is pick me up.”

  “You’re in Santa Barbara?”

  “That I am. Tell him to hurry, darlin’. It’s damn hot out here today.”

  Sam looked across the clubhouse at Tag, who was sitting in a huge leather recliner, playing his Game Boy, quietly waiting for her. That he was quietly waiting for her at all had a whole lot to do with Wade, and the patience and understanding he’d shown Tag.

  She owed Wade for that.

  She took a deep breath. “Wade had a game today,” she said into the phone. “He’s . . . a little busy at the moment.”

  “Yeah.” His father sighed. “He usually is.”

  She pictured an older man, all alone, tired and hungry from his long trip, and her gut twisted. “No, he . . . there was a problem. He—”

  “I know. He’s got things to do, places to go, people to meet. It’s okay. I’ll just . . . wait.”

  “I’ll make sure you get a ride,” she said. “Just stay right where you are.” She didn’t want to leave the facilities now, not without seeing Wade if at all possible, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen for a while anyway. She looked around for someone that she could task with going to the bus station, but she couldn’t put that on anyone without invading Wade’s privacy even further. So in the end, she grabbed Tag and her things, and then she was driving through town toward the bus station.

  Darlin’, that boy’s been temporarily unavailable all his damn life.

  Gage called her again just as she arrived at the bus station. “He’s on the DL. Day-to-day status. Probably only going to be off a few days, but with the slight concussion and those banged-up ribs, we want to be careful.”

  “Is slight the official word, or the real word?” she asked.

  “Both.” Gage was as tough as they came, but his voice softened. “He’s really going to be fine, Sam. You know how it works. The disabled list just gives him a few days recovery, that’s all. I’ll call you when he’s released from the ER.”

  The relief left her weak-kneed. “Does he need a ride?” she asked, even while knowing Wade wouldn’t need for anything. He was a big-ticket player, and the Heat took care of their own exceptionally well.

  “I’ve got him,” Gage confirmed.

  Sam parked at the bus station, and with Tag in hand, she crossed the street, eyeing the benches lined with people. The far right bench had only one man on it, and he stood as she stepped onto the curb. Tall, lanky, and lean, with a weathered face and a mop of gray wavy hair falling over his temple, he looked like a California surfer plus half a century. Contradicting his years, he wore a loud Hawaiian shirt over a set of cargo shorts and mirrored Ray-Bans, which he lifted to the top of his head, leveling a set of green eyes on her, and she knew.

  John O’Riley.

  “Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. “Samantha McNead.”

  “Aren’t you the prettiest publicist I’ve ever seen.” He reached out to shake her hand but his hand was already occupied. He glanced at the brown sack in his fingers as if he’d forgotten the alcohol was there, then shrugged apologetically. “Liquid courage.”

  Sam wondered how he’d pulled off traveling with an open container, but then her gaze shot up the street and she saw the liquor store.

  John took a sip and staggered unsteadily on his feet. “Sorry. My feet aren’t what they used to be.”

  Tag appeared fascinated. “Are you drunk?”

  “Nope. Never.” John tipped his nose down at him. “Are you Wade’s?”

  “No!” Sam grabbed Tag’s hand. “He’s my nephew, Tag.”

  “Well, hello-ooo, Tag.” John tossed his “liquid courage” into a trash bin. “And good-bye, Jack Daniel’s. I’ll miss you.” He sighed dramatically. “That was my last drink. I’m ready for my ride to Wade now, though knowing him, he’s probably ordered you to try to dump me somewhere along the way.”

  Sam didn’t have the heart to tell him that she hadn’t told Wade about the visit at all, or that she was stepping over all sorts of boundaries. She didn’t know how to explain it to herself, much less him. “Do you have a suitcase?”

  “Bus people lost it. Bastards,” he said amicably.

  “Bastards,” Tag repeated gleefully, rolling his lips inward when Sam gave him a look.

  “Maybe we could make a quick stop, darlin’?” John asked Sam. “I need a few things.”

  She had a hundred things to do. A thousand. The first and foremost being checking in on Wade. She needed to report to the news outlets, check on the schedule . . . But she’d started this, she had to finish it. She couldn’t ditch him now. “Okay,” she said. “A quick stop.”

  “So how did Wade talk you into doing this for him?” John asked as they walked to the car. He tripped over the curb and nearly fell.

  Sam quickly locked her arm in his. “I’m just doing him a favor.”

  “Ah.” John nodded and patted her hand. For a quick beat, his easy smile faded, revealing the anxiety beneath. “Nice of you.”

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Mr. O’Riley.”

  “John. Call me John.” He looked into her eyes, his mouth curved. “And I bet you make a good publicist, don’t you?”

  She decided not to comment on that. In her car, John fastened his seat belt and slid his sunglasses back on. “It’s bright in California.”

  Sam checked Tag in the rearview mirror, making sure he had his seat belt on, then pulled out of the lot. “So what brings you to Santa Barbara?”

  “My mule-headed son.” John looked out the window at the ocean on his right. “I need something from him, and though he doesn’t know it, he needs something from me, too.”

  She didn’t want to argue with the man, but the truth was, Wade didn’t need much from anyone. “You mentioned a quick stop?”

  “I need clothes. And cigarettes.”

  “Tobacco makes you sick,” Tag said from the backseat in an I learned this the hard way tone.

  John slid him a look. “You’re a quick one, aren’t you?”

  “The quickest.”

  Sam’s phone chirped. It was Gage again. “He’s been released and is sore as hell, but everything’s okay.”

  She released a pent-up breath. “Is he home?”

  “He will be, soon enough.”

  Sam pulled into Walmart and looked at John. “Is this okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Sam rushed out of her door and ran around to help him before he stumbled again, but he seemed surer on his feet now. “It’s the damn shoes,” he murmured. “The laces get me every time.”

  He was wearing slip-on athletic shoes. No laces. Sam locked arms with him. He leaned on her and grinned. “You’re sweet. Are you Wade’s?”

  “That’s . . . complicated.”

  He sighed mightily. “It always is.”

  “Tag,” Sam said. “Grab my purse?”

  Tag handed it over and they all went inside Walmart, stopping at the McDonald’s first to get John a large coffee to help the sobering up process along.

  Then John settled into one of those motori